Azi zi maine, doar in Bucuresti. Intrarea este libera:
sâmbătă, iulie 6
joi, iulie 4
BB la munte si la mare:)
Prima mea crema colorata a fost de la Dior si de-abia se lansase conceptul. Cred ca era in urma cu vreo 15 ani. Nu se numeau BB, ci creme colorate. Au avut un succes relativ la acea vreme, caci de-abia de doi ani a inceput cu adevarat nebunia. Crema de la Dior era ceea ce numesc eu "o crema frumoasa"- era intr-o sticluta eleganta, de colectie, mirosea bine, te facea sa te simti bine, deci era un perfect produs Christian Dior. Dar era prea hidratanta, ingrasa repede tenul si parca atragea gulerele deschise la culoare intr-un fel de malaxor rau intentionat, care te faceau sa te simti oarecum murdara de dimineata pana seara. Parca plangea cineva pe hainele tale, tot timpul eram obsedata de urmele pe care le lasa la gat. Am obosit sa le pandesc si sa ma duc la baie in fiecare ceas, sa le verific. Asa ca am inchis subiectul, am tras obloanele si am decis ca numai fond de ten oil free voi folosi de acum incolo.
Cred ca de aceeasi parere cu mine a fost si multe milioane de femei, caci pana acum doi ani nu parea sa fie un produs prea popular.
Dar uite ca reluam povestea de unde am ramas in urma cu 15 ani.
In acest moment am Light Texture Tinted face Cream cu SPF 30, gasiti detaliile aici.
Textura este intr-adevar light, nuanta se potriveste tenului meu deschis la culoare. O fixez cu pudra. Acoperire mica. Efect natural(nota 10)
As vrea sa spun ca nu murdareste hainele, dar nu e asa. Cand ai tenul gras, cand afara soarele straluceste, iar tu ai haine albe ei bine eu recomand totusi un fond de ten oil free. Nu e un dezastru, nu strica hainele, insa eu ma simt mult mai relaxata cu un fdt.
Cand o folosesc: daca ies din casa doar pentru trei-patru ore. Sau cand trebuie sa ma machiez repede si nu mai am timp de baza de machiaj. Cand si trei-patru minute conteaza. Da, atunci e salvarea mea. In cazul meu, functioneaza perfect ca produs complementar. Nu poate inlocui un fond de ten oil free.
miercuri, iulie 3
Buletin de Bucuresti/ o scrisoare catre cititoarele mele...
Vrea sa plece din urbea natala, in care lucrurile sunt-desigur, bune si frumoase, prietenii sunt prieteni, viata trece calma, zilele sunt senine, iar timpul se scurge lin. Dar are nevoie de o provocare, vrea sa isi incerce limitele si simte, cred, nevoia de a-si urma destinul. Care, la prima vedere, pare sa fie altundeva decat in locul in care s-a nascut, a copilarit si si-a petrecut adolescenta. Vrea sa sa mute in capitala, sa urmeze cursurile unei facultati si sa isi gaseasca un job.
A mai cerut si alte sfaturi, de la cei pe care i-a socotit ea avizati, iar concluzia a fost ca nimeni nu a impulsionat-o sa vina in Bucuresti. Motivele sunt lesne de inteles: capitala este vazuta ca un malaxor care distruge vieti si supune chiar si caractere considerate uneori, puternice.
Ei bine, eu am sfatuit-o exact contrariul. Nu am omis sa ii spun ca mai mult ca sigur primul an va fi un cosmar, ca sentimentul dezradacinarii o va bantui noptile si ii va tulbura zilele. Ca se va lupta si cu morile de vant. Ca nu se va regasi, la capat de drum, in inocenta si dragalasenia cu care porneste sa cucereasca lumea. Dar ca merita sa vina si sa incerce marea cu degetul. Dupa cum vedeti, nu ma sfiesc deloc sa imi spun parerea atunci cand mi se cere. Nu m-am eschivat niciodata.
Insa nu pot sa nu ma gandesc si sa ma intreb: voi ce sfat i-ati fi dat fetei? Sa vina sau sa nu vina in capitala?
marți, iulie 2
Un moment perfect
Ieri, la supermarket, nu stiam ce banda de la casierie merge mai repede, asa ca le-am verificat pe toate inainte de a alege una. In fata mea era un barbat simplu, cu trasaturile grele si cu fata plina de linii. Genul muncitor cu ziua. Sarac. Simteai cumva ca viata nu a fost blanda cu el. Cred ca avea 45 de ani, dar parea de 60. Poate chiar 65. Imbatranit inainte de vreme. M-am asezat dupa el. Avea doua paini albe si o punga cu boabe pentru pisici. M-am uitat la el, m-am uitat la punga. Iar m-am uitat la el si iar m-am uitat la punga. Nu ai fi zis ca e genul care are grija de o pisica. Nu in genul ca le face rau, dar cu siguranta nu mi-ar fi trecut prin cap, daca nu era punga cu bobite, ca ar putea avea asemenea gingasii bine ascunse intr-o fizionomie care il facea sa para mai aspru si mai batran.
Si mi-am adus aminte de o povestire scrisa de Hemingway, despre un barbat care avea grija de animalute-The old Man at the Bridge, pe care o puteti citi la finalul postarii. Toata lumea din jurul lui fugea, se retragea, era razboi, iar el era singurul care statea si se intreba ce o sa faca el fara animalele de care a avut grija toata viata. Care este de fapt rostul lui, daca animalele lui nu vor mai fi...
Apoi, ca sa intru in vorba cu el, l-am intrebat pe barbatul din fata mea cate pisici are. Prima oara nu mi-a raspuns. Mi-a aruncat doar o privire rapida, pe sub gene. Cred ca nu i-a venit sa creada ca vorbeam cu el. Am repetat intrebarea. Fata i s-a luminat instantaneu, a intinerit si mi-a raspuns ca patru. Doi mari si doi mici, care s-au pripasit in ograda lui. Apoi a scos o punga din buzunar, ponosita de atatea refolosiri, ca sa nu mai plateasaca si acea ecotaxa la supermarket.
L-am rugat sa ma lase sa platesc eu mancarea pisicilor si painile. Nu am avut impresia ca dau de pomana (eu chiar nu dau bani cersetorilor), ci fac un lucru firesc, la fel cum firesc este sa ai grija de patru pisoi care s-au pripasit pe la tine prin ograda, oricat ai fi de amarat.
A plecat uluit, multumind incontinuu, iar mie mi s-au umplut ochii de lacrimi.
“The Old Man at the Bridge”
by Ernest Hemingway
An old man with steel rimmed spectacles and very dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. There was a pontoon bridge across the river and carts, trucks, and men, women and children were crossing it. The mule- drawn carts staggered up the steep bank from the bridge with soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels. The trucks ground up and away heading out of it all and the peasants plodded along in the ankle deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was too tired to go any farther.
It was my business to cross the bridge, explore the bridgehead beyond and find out to what point the enemy had advanced. I did this and returned over the bridge. There were not so many carts now and very few people on foot, but the old man was still there.
"Where do you come from?" I asked him.
"From San Carlos," he said, and smiled.
That was his native town and so it gave him pleasure to mention it and he smiled.
"I was taking care of animals," he explained.
"Oh," I said, not quite understanding.
"Yes," he said, "I stayed, you see, taking care of animals. I was the last one to leave the town of San Carlos."
He did not look like a shepherd nor a herdsman and I looked at his black dusty clothes and his gray dusty face and his steel
rimmed spectacles and said, "What animals were they?"
"Various animals," he said, and shook his head. "I had to leave them."
I was watching the bridge and the African looking country of the Ebro Delta and wondering how long now it would be
before we would see the enemy, and listening all the while for the first noises that would signal that ever mysterious event called contact, and the old man still sat there.
"What animals were they?" I asked.
"There were three animals altogether," he explained. "There were two goats and a cat and then there were four pairs of pigeons."
And you had to leave them?" I asked.
"Yes. Because of the artillery. The captain told me to go because of the artillery."
"And you have no family?" I asked, watching the far end of the bridge where a few last carts were hurrying down the slope
of the bank.
"No," he said, "only the animals I stated. The cat, of course, will be all right. A cat can look out for itself, but I cannot think
what will become of the others."
"What politics have you?" I asked.
"I am without politics," he said. "I am seventy-six years old. I have come twelve kilometers now and I think now I can go
no further."
"This is not a good place to stop," I said. "If you can make it, there are trucks up the road where it forks for Tortosa."
"I will wait a while," he said, " and then I will go. Where do the trucks go?"
"Towards Barcelona," I told him.
"I know no one in that direction," he said, "but thank you very much. Thank you again very much."
He looked at me very blankly and tiredly, and then said, having to share his worry with someone, "The cat will be all right, I
am sure. There is no need to be unquiet about the cat. But the others. Now what do you think about the others?" "Why they'll probably come through it all right."
"You think so?"
"Why not," I said, watching the far bank where now there were no carts.
"But what will they do under the artillery when I was told to leave because of the artillery?" "Did you leave the dove cage unlocked?" I asked.
"Y es."
"Then they'll fly."
"Yes, certainly they'll fly. But the others. It's better not to think about the others," he said.
"If you are rested I would go," I urged. "Get up and try to walk now."
"Thank you," he said and got to his feet, swayed from side to side and then sat down backwards in the dust.
"I was taking care of animals," he said dully, but no longer to me. "I was only taking care of animals."
There was nothing to do about him. It was Easter Sunday and the Fascists were advancing toward the Ebro. It was a gray
overcast day with a low ceiling so their planes were not up. That and the fact that cats know how to look after themselves was all the good luck that old man would ever have.
by Ernest Hemingway
An old man with steel rimmed spectacles and very dusty clothes sat by the side of the road. There was a pontoon bridge across the river and carts, trucks, and men, women and children were crossing it. The mule- drawn carts staggered up the steep bank from the bridge with soldiers helping push against the spokes of the wheels. The trucks ground up and away heading out of it all and the peasants plodded along in the ankle deep dust. But the old man sat there without moving. He was too tired to go any farther.
It was my business to cross the bridge, explore the bridgehead beyond and find out to what point the enemy had advanced. I did this and returned over the bridge. There were not so many carts now and very few people on foot, but the old man was still there.
"Where do you come from?" I asked him.
"From San Carlos," he said, and smiled.
That was his native town and so it gave him pleasure to mention it and he smiled.
"I was taking care of animals," he explained.
"Oh," I said, not quite understanding.
"Yes," he said, "I stayed, you see, taking care of animals. I was the last one to leave the town of San Carlos."
He did not look like a shepherd nor a herdsman and I looked at his black dusty clothes and his gray dusty face and his steel
rimmed spectacles and said, "What animals were they?"
"Various animals," he said, and shook his head. "I had to leave them."
I was watching the bridge and the African looking country of the Ebro Delta and wondering how long now it would be
before we would see the enemy, and listening all the while for the first noises that would signal that ever mysterious event called contact, and the old man still sat there.
"What animals were they?" I asked.
"There were three animals altogether," he explained. "There were two goats and a cat and then there were four pairs of pigeons."
And you had to leave them?" I asked.
"Yes. Because of the artillery. The captain told me to go because of the artillery."
"And you have no family?" I asked, watching the far end of the bridge where a few last carts were hurrying down the slope
of the bank.
"No," he said, "only the animals I stated. The cat, of course, will be all right. A cat can look out for itself, but I cannot think
what will become of the others."
"What politics have you?" I asked.
"I am without politics," he said. "I am seventy-six years old. I have come twelve kilometers now and I think now I can go
no further."
"This is not a good place to stop," I said. "If you can make it, there are trucks up the road where it forks for Tortosa."
"I will wait a while," he said, " and then I will go. Where do the trucks go?"
"Towards Barcelona," I told him.
"I know no one in that direction," he said, "but thank you very much. Thank you again very much."
He looked at me very blankly and tiredly, and then said, having to share his worry with someone, "The cat will be all right, I
am sure. There is no need to be unquiet about the cat. But the others. Now what do you think about the others?" "Why they'll probably come through it all right."
"You think so?"
"Why not," I said, watching the far bank where now there were no carts.
"But what will they do under the artillery when I was told to leave because of the artillery?" "Did you leave the dove cage unlocked?" I asked.
"Y es."
"Then they'll fly."
"Yes, certainly they'll fly. But the others. It's better not to think about the others," he said.
"If you are rested I would go," I urged. "Get up and try to walk now."
"Thank you," he said and got to his feet, swayed from side to side and then sat down backwards in the dust.
"I was taking care of animals," he said dully, but no longer to me. "I was only taking care of animals."
There was nothing to do about him. It was Easter Sunday and the Fascists were advancing toward the Ebro. It was a gray
overcast day with a low ceiling so their planes were not up. That and the fact that cats know how to look after themselves was all the good luck that old man would ever have.
luni, iulie 1
Am intalnit femei...
Nu, nu e un text despre iubire/filozofie/introspectie.
E tot un text despre beauty, despre vanitatea din noi si despre orgoliile care ne cauta pana si in acest domeniu. Caci am tot intalnit femei in ultima vreme...
1-Asadar, am intalnit femei care se jura ca nu merg la cosmetica, spun ca nu au trecut niciodata pe acolo. Ca au un ten perfect, care nu are nevoie de nicio cosmeticiana. Dupa care evident, le prinzi cu matza-n sac si cu fata expusa la tratamente sofisticate. Ce sa faci? Sa-i aduci aminte de discutie si sa o pui in fata faptului implinit, sa o intrebi de ce minte intr-o problema minora? Nuuu, nu are niciun rost, destul ai pierdut vremea cu ea prima oara. Mai bine te-ai duce si ti-ai pieptana matza (daca ai). O indeletnicire foarte placuta-daca ma intrebati pe mine, caci ai timp sa iti pui in ordine problemele si intrebarile.
2- Femei care incearca sa te determine sa nu mergi la cosmetica pe motiv ca "nu e bine". Nu se stie prea bine de ce, dar asa recomanda ele. Fara nuante, fara exemplificari, fara detalii. Eventual, pot sa povesteasca despre cum au incercat mai demult, la un salon si a iesit totul foarte prost, au avut bube mari, mici, roz, rosii albe si galbene, au scapat de napasta numai dupa luni in sir de plansete, acatiste si blesteme. Din seria pe care am mai combatut-o aici pe blog, a celor care recomanda sa iti speli parul o data la sapte zile, ca stiu ele ca numai asa e bine. Adevarul este ca daca alegi o cosmeticiana nepriceputa care sa nu cunoasca meserie, care sa iti faca mai mult rau decat bine, mai bine stai frumusel acasa (si poti pieptana matza, evident)
3 Si totusi, cum alegi cosmeticiana? Dupa recomandari, evident. Daca prietena ta vine si ti-o lauda pe cosmeticiana ei, te uiti bine de tot la fata amicei tale, apoi te uiti la fata cosmeticienei. Daca nu arata ambele de la bine in sus, te rog sa te duci repede acasa(unde poti pieptana matza, am spus)
4 De cele mai multe ori, o cosmeticiana buna nu e ieftina. Nu te zgarci atunci cand mergi la un tratament facial. Daca e scump, iar tu esti studenta, mergi mai rar. Nu exista nicio regula de genul: daca un tratament facial e scump, e si eficace. Tocmai de aceea, mergi pe recomandari. Nici acestea nu au cum sa fie 100% sigure, dar rata de succes e destul de mare.
5 Daca ajungi la salon, ai programarea facuta, iar cosmeticiana isi da aere, iti raspunde nervos, irascibil si simti ca intre voi nu exista energie pozitiva, nu ezita sa ii spui in fata ca renunti. Te intorci cu spatele, bati de trei ori din calcaie si dispari. Pentru totdeauna. Au fost multe tratamente ratate in felul acesta, "par delicatesse", iar eu iti recomand sa fii atenta cu banii tai. Si cu tenul tau, bineinteles
6. Daca poti, e bine sa mergi la tratamentul facial nemachiata. Ca sa te demachieze temeinic, ii ia vreo zece minute, timp pe care mai bine il foloseste pentru tratamentul in sine: extractie sau masaj. Te va demachia si daca nu ai niciun strop de make-up pe fata (asa scrie la carte), dar ii va lua mult mai putin. Daca e o tipa vorbareata si tie iti displace profund acest aspect, roag-o sa te lasa sa dormi in timp ce iti face tratamentul. Daca nu intelege din prima, mai spune-i o data, mai ferm.
7. La final, daca ti-a placut si vrei sa mai mergi la ea, ii lasi o atentie. In jur de 10%. Daca ti se pare mult, 10 lei este "onorabil". O varianta mai soft ar fi sa ii oferi un cadou simpatic (nu scump)si sa o surprinzi: o carte, un obiect decorativ, o floare intr-un ghiveci, un accesoriu...
Daca cosmeticiana ta este si patroana salonului(sau te duci la ea acasa), plateste cat iti cere si nu ii lasa nimic, caci are ea grija sa faca preturile in asa fel incat sa incaseze suma pe care si-o doreste.
Daca nu vrei sa mai mergi la ea si nu ti-a placut, te rog sa nu ii lasi nimic. Daca ea ti-a stricat ziua, strica-i-o si tu pe a ei. Fara discutii.
8. Acum, la final, iata ca va spun si varianta mea la intrebarea de ce mint femeile si nu recunosc faptul ca merg la cosmetica: sa se dea interesante.
Da, sunt si femei care nu merg deloc la cosmetica(si asa si este, chiar nu merg), dar nu despre ele e vorba aici.
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